


Kinship

by nothingeverlost



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday dinners and Christmas trees. When Napoleon goes missing Illya bonds with the other person who misses his partner as much as he does.</p><p>originally posted 12/07</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinship

He knew from the moment he woke up that something was wrong. The fact that he was in the hospital was less troubling than the fact that he was alone in the room.

“Napoleon?” Despite the pain it caused he lifted his head, looked in every corner of the room and attempted to see out into the hallway. No one.

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, you are awake. I’ll get the doctor.” A nurse had barely entered the room before she turned and left.

“Wait, where...” He was too late to catch stop her, but he was ready when the doctor came in. “Where is Napoleon?”

“Patience, Mr. Kuryakin. I need to...”

“You will do nothing until you answer my question, doctor. Where is my partner?”

“We were rather hoping you could answer that question.” Waverly stood in the doorway, his winter coat still on but his hat held in one hand. Standing next to him was an elegant woman, her brunette hair just beginning to give way to grey. Illya did not recognize her, but something about her seemed familiar.

“Sir?”

“Two nights ago we spoke over the communicator. You and Mr. Solo were leaving a satrapy in Coeur d'Alene, trying to rid yourself of a tail. Three hours later you were discovered by a good samaritan, unconscious in a car that was, shall we say, the worse for wear. We’ve had agents searching the area, but so far there is no sign of Mr. Solo.”

“Two days?” Two days his partner had been missing and he hadn’t been able to look for him. Any trail he might have been able to find would be cold now. “I don’t remember.” The last thing he remembered was driving down a freeway in Idaho, two cars full of Thrush goons chasing him. Napoleon had been kneeling on the passenger seat, leaning out the window of the car and shooting at their unwanted guests.

At Waverly’s side the woman closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When she opened them again Illya could read the disappointment there.

The doctor, who had been tapping his foot impatiently, interrupted. “Not surprising, considering your concussion and the trauma of the accident itself. Mr. Waverly, I really must insist that you allow me to examine my patient in peace before you ask him any questions.” He didn’t give Waverly a choice, tugging on the fabric of a curtain until the bed was surrounded, blocking the view. Illya frowned.

“Who was that woman?” Illya asked. Not Napoleon’s mother. He had seen pictures of the senior Solos in Napoleon’s apartment. Not the elusive Mrs. Waverly either. The Old Man’s wife might very well be a wonderful woman, but she wouldn’t be distraught over a man she had never met.

“I believe she said her name was Harrington.”

Illya flinched as the doctor touched his eyelid, keeping the pressure steady as he shone a small penlight into his eye. “Aunt Amy.” With understanding came additional guilt. He, who had no one to worry about him, was lying safe in a hospital bed while Napoleon was missing. “She flew all the way out to Idaho?”

“You are not in Idaho, Mr. Kuryakin. You were flown here as soon as you were stable. This is New York City General.”

.....

Illya waited until the night nurse made her rounds before kicking off the blankets and carefully climbing out of the bed. He needed to find something to wear. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he had first woken up in the hospital and that was long enough in his opinion. True, the broken arm would slow him down a little but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t dealt with before. He was more tired than he would like but he had a plane ride across most of the country to sleep. All he had to do was get dressed and get from here to the airport.

“And just what do you think you are doing, young man?” He was opening the wardrobe in the corner of the room when the voice stopped him. In the dim light of the room he hadn’t noticed that he was not the only occupant.

“Miss Harrington, I was just...”

“I know what you were just going to do.” She rose from a chair that was angled to watch both the bed and the doorway. “You’re just as bad as Napoleon, running away from the doctors long before you are ready. And it’s Amy.”

“I will sleep better, and therefore heal quicker, if I sleep in my own bed.” A slight dodge that he hoped would appease her and get him what he wanted.

“That might be true, if you were planning on going home.” Her hands were small and perfectly manicured, but by no means frail. She held his uninjured arm. “But you’re not, are you?”

“Where else would I be going?”

“If I were a betting woman, Illya Kuryakin, I would say you were planning a trip to Idaho.”

“Miss Harrington.”

“Amy,” she scolded.

“Amy, I was the one with Napoleon when he disappeared. No one understands the mission we were on as well as I do, where we went, who we saw, and who might have seen us. In the event that Napoleon’s disappearance isn’t related to the Mine in the Mountain Affair then I am still the best person to find out where he is and who has him.” He was also the one to best understand what could be happening to him right now, but he didn’t tell Napoleon’s aunt that. No one outside their business needed to know those kinds of details.

“You have a broken arm, three cracked ribs, a lump on your head the size of a grapefruit and enough bruises that they all blend together. You’re not going to do anyone any good if you don’t let yourself heal first.” Her hand was still on his arm and she led him back to the hospital bed. “It’s past time for bed.”

“But...”

“Don’t make me call Alex Waverly, Illya. I have no doubt he could make sure you stayed here, if only for my peace of mind.” Amy waited until he was in the bed before pulling up the covers and tucking them around him.

“You sounded frighteningly like Napoleon,” Illya said sourly. He might have protested more if his eyes weren’t so heavy, the strain of keeping them open taking all of his concentration.

“Where do you think he got it from, my dear?”

Once he fell asleep Amy returned to her chair, her gaze falling on one man while her thoughts were with another.

.....

“I’ve come to offer you a ride home. My car is waiting downstairs.” In the whirlwind of energy that Illya had grown to expect, Amy bustled into the hospital room.

“I do not want to trouble you. I will take a taxi.” Even after three days he was at a loss when it came to understanding Amy Harrington. She had been gone when he had woken the morning she stopped him leaving, but she had been back just before lunch, bringing a bag full of grapes and a slice of the most delicious cheesecake he had ever eaten. The next day she had returned, this time with a book of poetry and an assortment of cookies.

“You will indulge an old woman’s whim and let me take you.”

“Old woman,” Illya snorted as he picked up his valise. “If you are a simply an old woman then I am nothing more than an ordinary business man.” She was sharp enough to have beaten him at chess twice, intelligent enough to engage him in a conversation that ranged from literature to music, kind enough to share the occasional story of Napoleon’s growing up years, and had somehow learned things from him that he rarely confided in others.

“You are many things, Illya, but ordinary is not one of them.” She smiled when he offered her an arm, and they walked together to the elevators.

He insisted on checking her car for hidden devises before letting her get in. There were no tracers or bombs. “One can never be too careful.”

“Doesn’t it get exhausting, always being on guard like that?” Amy frowned as she started the car. “Napoleon’s the same way, checking the car, scanning the restaurant, cautioning me about safe travel and opening the door to strangers.”

“It becomes habit.” There were some places they don’t have to be so vigilant: headquarters, their respective apartments, and... well, headquarters and home was about it. “It’s just a part of the job.”

“Constant vigilance, broken bones, more time spent out of the country than in it. But according to Napoleon it’s the only job in the world for him.”

“It’s certainly never boring,” Illya commented, drolly. They had arrived at his apartment, and he reached for the door, expecting that she would simply drop him off before continuing on to what ever she had planned for the rest of the day. Instead she turned off the car and opened her door.

“Don’t worry, I’m not staying but I do intend to make sure you are safely inside your apartment.” She unlocked the trunk of the car, withdrawing a wicker basket. She didn’t protest when he insisted on carrying it, but she did scold him about living three floors up without having an elevator. “What happens if you break a leg?”

“I climb one step at a time, very slowly, and hope there isn’t a fire.” He unlocked the apartment door and punched his code into the alarm. He was glad that, other than two weeks worth of dust, his home was clean and presentable. Food was scarce in his kitchen, but he offered his guest a glass of water. She politely turned him down.

“There is chicken soup, fresh bread, fruit, and a bottle of wine in here.” She patted the top of the basket Illya had set down on the small dining room table. “The basket belonged to my favorite aunt, so I would like it returned eventually but there is no rush.”

“I don’t know what to say, besides thank you.” He still didn’t understand why she was doing all this for him, but he did see why Napoleon spoke of his aunt with such affection. With a wave of her hand Amy brushed off the appreciation.

“This is for you too.” From inside the basket she pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. Inside was a plane ticket, New York to Idaho. First class.

“This is for Monday.” Today was Saturday. He had planned on calling the airline tonight for the soonest flight.

“Two good days of rest and your ribs should be close to healed according to the doctor. And then you can go find Napoleon for the both of us.”

“I will find him.” It was a promise to himself as much as for her benefit.

“By the grace of God.” Amy fingered the delicate gold cross that hung on a chain around her neck. “Until then rest, and tomorrow you will come to my penthouse for dinner.”

“I’ll wait until Monday. You do not need to check on me.”

“I would like you to come to Sunday dinner. Napoleon always comes if he is in town. It is nice not to eat alone.”

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

“Would I be wrong if I said that Napoleon is like family to you?” She surprised him with the question that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the dinner.

He never could define his relationship with Napoleon with words. It was complicated and ever changing, but he was the closest to family Illya had known since he was a child. “You would not be wrong.”

“Then it’s settled. Sunday dinner is for family. Napoleon is your family and he’s mine. So that makes you my family too. My address is on the card in the basket. I expect you no later than five-thirty.” With a decisive nod and a kiss to his cheek she was gone, shutting the door behinds her. A bewildered Illya stared at the door as he reset the alarm.

“I wonder if Napoleon’s family has ever been tested for insanity,” he mused as he went into the kitchen to heat up the soup.

.....

“Where to, buddy?”

“Home,” Illya muttered wearily as he slid into the cab. For the last eight days he had traveled from Idaho to Canada, Alaska to Arizona, and he had nothing to show for it. A dozen leads gone cold, a Thrush goon dead before he could answer any questions, and a partner still missing. Not even the fact that he’d blown up another satrapy brought him any satisfaction.

“I need an address,” the cab driver said, looking over his shoulder. “I’m not a mind reader, ya’ know.”

He wanted nothing more than to go home and fall into bed. He should go to headquarters and make an oral report, even if this wasn’t an official assignment. Sighing, he gave the cabby an address.

Amy’s penthouse was nowhere near his own small apartment, but he hadn’t spoken with her since he left and she had waited long enough for a report. At least she had an elevator; he would have been hard pressed to climb a dozen sets of stairs.

“Illya.” The door swung open too quickly; Napoleon was right to caution his aunt about opening doors without checking first.

“I’m sorry, Amy.” He had left with every intention of bringing Napoleon back. The failure weighed on him twice as heavily now.

“He’s not...”

“Still missing.” He had found no proof that Napoleon was dead, and wouldn’t believe it was possible unless it was irrefutable.

“Then there’s still hope.” She held the door open wider to allow him entry, frowning when she noticed the gauze wrapped around his hand, dotted with dried blood. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” There had been a small incident with a Thrush's knife yesterday. His cast had blocked most of the blade but there was a slice across the palm of his hand.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, but your version of nothing wrong would have most people calling a priest to administer the last rites.” She retrieved a first aid kit from the bathroom, stopping at the wet bar to pour two stiff drinks. “Now let me see.”

“All right.” There didn’t seem to be any point in arguing, and his hand was sore. He sat on the couch and allowed her to clean and bandage the wound while he held his drink in his undamaged right hand.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Miss Amy.” Ella, who came in for a few hours a day to clean and cook, came out of the kitchen with a towel in one hand. “Should I set a second place at the table?”

“Yes, thank you.” Amy didn’t ask if Illya was staying, but he would have said yes anyway. The last meal he had eaten had been on the airplane, and that hardly counted as food.

“Good,” Ella nodded. “The boy’s too skinny.”

“Boy?” Illya asked with a raise of his eyebrow.

“Anyone under the age of fifty is a boy or girl in Ella’s opinion.” Amy added one last piece of tape to the gauze, then packed away the first aid kit. “I hope you’re hungry. She’ll insist you take seconds, I’m sure.”

“I could eat.” He wondered when Napoleon had last had a real meal.

“During dinner you can tell me about Idaho.”

“And Alaska, Canada and Arizona,” he added. He would be sure to leave out some of the details like the two dead men he had left in his hotel room in Juno. “It’s been a long week.”

.....

Illya didn’t remember falling asleep, but the moment he woke up he knew where he was. Amy’s apartment was dark now, her couch made more comfortable by the blanket that covered him. He had to turn on a lamp in order to read his watch; it was just after three am.

He was trying to decide if it would be better to go home now and risk offending Amy when she woke up to find him gone or annoy Mr. Waverly by showing up at work in the morning in rumpled clothing, when he heard a cry. With his gun in his hand, he crossed the hall, half afraid that Thrush had followed him here. The alarm in Amy’s apartment was meant to deter simple burglars, and wouldn’t have been hard for his enemies to disarm. Stupid, coming here.

The door opened without a sound, but after his eyes adjusted to the dark he realized that he was in Amy’s bedroom and she was alone, sitting up in bed, eyes wide open.

“Are you alright?” He lowered his gun slightly but did not relax.

“It was just a dream. I’ll be fine.” She turned on the bedside light. The subtle lighting suited the room full of eighteenth century antique furniture and pale blue fabrics. It was understated and elegant, like the lady herself.

“Sometimes it helps to speak of the nightmare aloud.” He returned the gun to his shoulder holster. After looking speculatively at the closest chair, half way across the room, he settled on the edge of the bed. “It makes them less frightening.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” There was a glass of water on the bedside table, and Amy took a small sip before continuing. “I’m not sure if it was a dream or a memory. It certainly wasn’t anything important. Napoleon and I were walking in the park, down the path that circles the duck pond like we do sometimes when the weather is fine. He picked an apple blossom from a tree and gave it to me. He’s always doing sweet little things like that; dinner at the Plaza for my birthday, a card on Valentine's Day, my favorite chocolates just because.”

“He cares a great deal about you.”

“I was so pleased when he moved to New York after Korea. I didn’t get to see him more than a few times a year when he was growing up, but despite that we were always close.” She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “I could almost smell the apple blossom, and I could see the grin on Napoleon’s face when he suggested we stop at the ice cream cart. And then I woke up, and I remembered.”

“I’m sorry.” He could think of nothing else to say. He hated these times, when his partner was gone and there was nothing he could do. This time was even worse, knowing that he was not the only one waiting for news, clinging to hope. If the worst was confirmed and he had to look her in the eye and tell her... No, he would not borrow trouble from the future.

“Don’t apologize for something that is in no way your fault.” She lowered the blanket and reached for his hand. “You were right about it helping to talk out-loud. A burden shared is a burden halved, as my mother used to say.”

“Perhaps,” he said with a shrug. In his experience a burden shared meant that many more people ended up suffering. “I should leave so you can go back to sleep.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m too awake now. I think I’ll get a book from the library and read for a while. The bed in the guest room next door is more comfortable than the couch if you would like to get a few more hours of sleep.”

“I’d rather have a cup of tea.” He was used to getting by on less than the five hours of sleep he had received, and there were some things more important than being well rested. “What if I make two cups? If you wish to join me in the kitchen I will tell you of the time Napoleon and I worked at a circus while on assignment. I had to clean the animal cages, but it was worth it to see Napoleon dressed as a clown.”

“I’d like that.”

The teakettle was just starting to whistle when Amy joined him in the kitchen, a robe covering her nightgown and slippers on her feet. He spent the next few hours regaling her with every entertaining story he could think of, sometimes about fellow agents, a few about himself, most about Napoleon. His friend was going to kill him when he found out, but for the first time since he had met her, Amy was laughing. Napoleon would understand.

.....

“What is this?” There was a small box wrapped in blue paper on the table. It was right in front of the chair that had, in the past six weeks, become his seat at Sunday dinner.

“You are an agent for the U.N.C.L.E. Illya. I should hope that you could recognize a present when you see one.” Amy smiled when he held out her chair for her, and motioned for him to sit down. “Happy birthday.”

“How did you know?” He had almost forgotten the significance of the day himself. Perhaps, on some level, he had tried to forget. In recent years birthdays had been celebrated by Napoleon taking him out for an extravagant dinner.

“Napoleon mentioned once that it was a few weeks before Thanksgiving, something I remembered when I was looking at my calendar last week.”

“You...” He started to protest, but thought better of it. “Thank you, Tet’a Amy.”

“Russian?” she guessed.

“Da.” He was afraid he had done something wrong when her eyes grew moist with tears.

“You’re welcome.” She dabbed away the moisture with a linen handkerchief and looked pointedly at the present. Without tearing the paper Illya unwrapped it, opening the box to find a gold medallion.

“It’s the Archangel Michael,” Amy explained. “He’s the patron saint of police and soldiers, and I believe he looks out for U.N.C.L.E. agents too. You don’t have to wear it, but...”

Illya rose from his chair, walked around the table and gave her a kiss on the cheek before slipping the chain on over his head. He did not believe in saints and angels but he would wear it as a reminder of her, just as he wore a gold wedding band to remember his own family.

.....

“I hate the rain.” He spoke more to himself than to the man sitting next to him in the car. He hated the cold drizzle that had been falling non stop for hours, hated the ache in his arm just recently out of a cast, hated the fact that this stake out was another vivid reminder of his missing partner.

“At least we’re not out there in it.” Samuel Trent sounded falsely optimistic.

“Not yet.” Sooner or later they would be. There was only so long a person could sit in a car without needing to stretch or get food or pee. He was coming close to that limit. “What time is it?” Illya’s watch had broken yesterday during a fight.

“It’s just gone five now.” Trent shone a pocket light on his watch.

“I need to make a call. I’ll bring back coffee.” He folded up the collar of his jacket, knowing it would make little difference in keeping him dry.

“Canceling a date for tonight?” Trent asked.

“Something like that.” It would be Sunday morning back in New York. Amy would worry if he didn’t show up for dinner and didn’t call. He opened the door and ran out into the rain.

.....

Illya never thought he would voluntarily visit a Christmas tree lot. He rarely paid attention to Christmas preparations, other than to take note of the corners and doorways where his coworkers hung mistletoe so he could avoid it. He didn’t trim a tree or decorate his apartment, and generally his only contribution to Napoleon’s decorations was to tell his partner that the tree listed to one side.

Napoleon always bought his aunt a tree for Christmas. Every year he invited Illya to join him on the hunt for the perfect tree, and every year Illya declined.

Now, however, it was the tenth of December and Amy did not have a tree. Illya could no longer avoid the tree lot, which was why he was spending his day off being badgered by a man more persistent than a Thrush agent, trying to sell him a twelve-foot tall blue spruce.

“Too large,” he said dismissively.

“What about…”

“I will find my own tree,” Illya snapped. He was not in the mood to hear any more about the merits of the different types of trees or pretend to care that New York was the first place that had ever had a tree lot.

Left alone, though, he still found himself unable to make a decision. When he realized that he was judging the trees based on what Napoleon would say when he saw it, Illya picked the closest tree, dragged it to the front of the lot, and paid for it. It barely fit in the elevator to Amy’s apartment.

He scowled when she called him a Christmas elf and cursed in three different languages when the pine needles scratched his face as he set the tree in a metal stand. When Amy disappeared into the back room to retrieve her Christmas ornaments Illya considered leaving. He was not in a mood to be friendly and amusing, as Amy deserved. He was feeling.... angry. He was angry. Napoleon should be receiving thanks for the tree, hanging ornaments, sharing memories of past years. Napoleon should be the one hanging mistletoe in the halls at U.N.C.L.E., delighting the secretaries and making subtle overtures that Illya never took seriously. Napoleon should be here.

“Damn it, Napoleon, where are you?” The branch he had been holding snapped, falling to the floor unheeded.

“I’m afraid the tree is not going to give you the answer, no matter how much you torture it.” The broken branch was picked up and placed in a crystal vase.

“Come, help me set up the crèche.” Amy led him to the couch, the smallest of the three boxes she had carried to the room and placing it on her lap. Inside was a collection of porcelain figures, the glaze cracked with age. “When I was a child my sister and I would set up the shepherds, wise men, animals, Mary and Joseph on the first Sunday of Advent. It would take hours, as we made up stories and acted them out. When we were done we would beg Mother for the baby Jesus, but Mother always shook her head and put the baby on the highest shelf of the bookcase. Jesus didn’t join the crèche until Christmas Eve. We had to be patient and wait.”

As she spoke Amy set up the crèche, the Mary and Joseph figures carefully placed on either side of the empty manger. The infant figure she picked up last, stroking a tiny cheek with her finger before placing the object in Illya’s hand. There was no bookcase in the room, but Illya crossed the room and placed the figure in the middle of the fireplace mantle.

“And now we wait.”

.....

“That, young man, does not look like a tuxedo.” When Amy opened the apartment door she was dressed for the planned festivity in a beaded black gown, her hair elegantly coiffured and her jewelry glittering.

“Something’s come up. I must fly to Washington tonight,” Illya explained. His plane left in just over an hour, but as her apartment was on the way from work to the airport he had elected to tell her in person rather than call.

“Are you sure this isn’t an excuse to get out of going to the party?” she asked. He had been reluctant when she had first asked him to accompany her. Gala affairs where black tie was the standard were not his kind of party. Only because she asked for the favor- and promised they wouldn’t have to stay more than a few hours- did he agree.

“Where Mr. Waverly wishes me to go, I go.” In truth it was a simple mission, something that any other section two agent could have done. He would be nothing more than a glorified mail-carrier, delivering a briefcase full of files his contact. The trip would put him only a few hours drive from Coeur d'Alene, however, an opportunity he could not pass up. That part Amy did not need to know. “I am sorry for the short notice.”

“If I’m not used to sudden changes of plans by now I never will be. Let me get my wrap and I’ll ride down the elevator with you.” When Amy fetched her black fur coat Illya held it for her. She locked the door as they left, placing the key in a purse that matched her dress. “I won’t expect you at Sunday dinner this week.”

“I will miss Ella’s roast.”

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but be careful.”

“I will not take any unnecessary risks.” Not quite the same thing, but it was a more honest promise. His was not a profession for careful men.

They parted ways in the lobby, Amy to her car and Illya to a waiting cab. While Illya was telling the cab driver his destination, Amy was sending a brief prayer up to the Archangel Michael, hoping that two men might find their way back home soon.

.....

Two days of fruitlessly searching northern Idaho was followed by a six-day assignment to Norway, three days in France, and a week in India. It wasn’t until the afternoon of the twenty-forth that Illya returned to New York. He barely had enough time to shower, shave, and dress before heading for the Russian Tea Room. Amy had made reservations for dinner.

"The reservation should be under the name of Harrington," he told the host when he arrived before Amy. The restaurant, already ornate with its art deco décor, was ostentatious with ornaments, lights, tinsel and a tree that almost rivaled the one in Rockefeller Center. Illya wished he was in one of his dark and smoke filled jazz clubs.

"That would be Amy Harrington, party of three." The host barely glanced at his list.

"Two," Illya corrected. He wondered how long ago Amy had made the reservation. Was it hope or superstitious fear that had her making it for three? "There will only be two tonight."

"This way."

Illya was relieved when he was led to a table for two. An empty chair at the table would have felt like they had set a place for a ghost. Having to watch someone take away a third chair would have been even worse.

"The expression on your face is rather grim considering the day. Penny for your thoughts?"

"Tet'a Amy." He rose in greeting and moved to pull out the other chair for her. "My thoughts are not worth so much. I was merely contemplating Dickens' story about this season."

"And is it the spirit of Christmas past, present, or future that troubles you?" she asked kindly.

"Are you calling me a Scrooge?" he joked, earning a laugh. It was a trick he had learned from Napoleon, using laughter as a deflection. "Bah Humbug."

"You say that now, but what happens when the clock strikes midnight and the first ghost arrives?" Amy nodded her thanks to the waiter when he poured a glass of wine and set a basket of bread on the table.

"The first ghost..." The first ghost was not the one from Christmas past, but Scrooge's dead partner. Illya knew there was a reason he had never liked the story. "The first ghost was nothing but a bit of cheese eaten before bed. I will have the kulebiaka for dinner, and if any ghosts come I will sleep with my pillow over my head until they go away."

“Don’t you believe in ghosts, Illya?”

“Do you?” he asked.

Amy smiled. “I can believe in anything on Christmas Eve.”

…..

Illya believed in his instincts more than miracles, and the moment they stepped off the elevator he felt that something was wrong.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered Amy as he slid his hand into his jacket and withdrew his special.

“Illya Kuryakin, you took a gun to church on the holiest day of the year?” She did not sound pleased.

Illya didn’t answer, but instead held his finger up to his lips in a gesture for silence. The penthouse door was ajar and when he pushed it open he could see that the security alarm was not blinking. “Stay in the hall and if you hear fighting you head for the stairs. Understand?”

“Illya...”

“The stairs," he repeated. He entered the apartment but did not turn on any of the lights. There was no point in making himself an easy target. The living room, dining room, library and kitchen were clear. By the time he reached the hall it was too dark to see anything. After ducking down he hit the light. Nothing. The bathroom was clear, as was Amy’s bedroom. Only the guest rooms remained. The smaller one was clear, and he was beginning to think that the stress of the day was making him over react. One more room and he would call for Amy. He opened the door.

“Bozhe moi!” The room was more in shadow than light, the man in the bed was covered with blankets, but Illya knew without a doubt who had broken into Amy’s apartment. “Napoleon.”

Turning on the light did not seem to affect the sleeping man but it did allow Illya to see clearly. Brunette hair was crew cut, face thinner and paler then usual, but it was unmistakably the visage of Napoleon Solo.

“Dear God, thank you.” Amy pushed past him her eyes shining with tears. She didn’t bother to wipe them away when they fell.

“I told you to stay out in the hall,” Illya scolded, his gaze quickly returning to the man on the bed. “What if it had been...”

“If you’re not nicer to my aunt, Santa won’t bring you any presents tomorrow.” Though Napoleon’s eyes were still closed his voice was clear.

“I will survive the disappointment.” He didn’t need any presents tomorrow. He had just received his.

“Killjoy.” Napoleon’s eyes were open now, and looking at him. It took three attempts but Napoleon finally sat up. The blankets fell away to reveal an ill-fitting blue sweater. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this, Aunt Amy, but I was in the neighborhood.”

“My boy, you...” Amy crossed the room and stood in front of the bed. Tentatively, as if afraid he would disappear, Amy reached out and touched his shorn hair. “Oh Napoleon.” She sat on the bed and buried her head in his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Aunt Amy.” Napoleon held tight to the woman, patting her back. When she pulled back to look at him, Napoleon wiped away her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “No need for tears, my dear.”

“Two and a half months, Napoleon, and not a word. I was beginning to...”

“I was slightly indisposed.” He gave Illya a look over his aunt’s head, promising that he would explain when they were alone. “But I’m here now. I wouldn’t miss celebrating Christmas with my favorite two people for anything.”

“You missed dinner, but I think there is some soup in the kitchen. Chicken soup.” Amy played with the cross hanging from her necklace. “Just the thing. You are too thin.”

“I would love some soup.” Napoleon smiled encouragingly. Amy bustled out of the room, past Illya who was still standing just inside the door.

“Thrush?” Illya asked once they were alone. Napoleon nodded.

“Until two weeks ago I was in a coma, first a natural one from the car crash and then one caused by drugs. I don’t know why I woke up but they didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that I had. Even then it took me this long to get my muscles working again and escape. You would have been impressed by the way I left, IK. The smoke from the explosion could be seen for miles.”

“Arizona?” That was the last place Illya had tracked him to.

“Little more south than that. Mexico.” Napoleon rose shakily from the bed. “Let me tell you it was no easy feat to get back over the border without any identification.”

“Why didn’t you call U.N.C.L.E?” Illya reached out, offering Napoleon a steadying arm.

“And spend Christmas in medical? I don’t think so. I hitched a ride with a friendly trucker most of the way here. He loaned me a few dollars for a taxi to your place. When you weren’t there I came here. Rather a pleasant surprise finding both of you in the same place.” Napoleon walked slowly, precise in the placement of each step like a child still practicing being able to walk. “You’ve been looking out for her while I was gone. Thanks for that.”

“We’ve been looking out for each other. I think she’s adopted me, like a stray orphan.”

“Or a stray puppy?” Napoleon suggested. The teasing was wonderfully familiar, and as it was expected of him Illya scowled. “She’s a good soul, and I’m glad she considers you family. Just remember that I am her favorite.”

“If I forget I’m sure you will remind me.”

“Boys, the soup is ready,” Amy called from the kitchen.

“Coming,” they said in unison. With Napoleon leaning heavily on Illya they walked down the hall.

“It’s almost midnight,” Illya observed as they passed by the clock.

“A few minutes until Christmas,” Amy said, beaming as they joined her at the table where three steaming bowls of soup waited.

“And here we are, all safe and together.” The glasses at the table were filled with milk, not wine, but Napoleon held his up for a toast. “To family.”

“To family,” Amy repeated.

With a hint of irony but no sarcasm Illya clinked his own glass against the others. “God bless us, every one.”


End file.
